


Listen To The Trees

by Arvak



Category: Original Work
Genre: But also a really cool idea in general, Communication with Trees, Kinda Dark, Knowledge of murderers, Trees are all-knowing, and stuff, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arvak/pseuds/Arvak
Summary: There's a tree that grows in the woods behind the old house that speaks. Not words, of course, but still it communicates in its own way. It utters the sounds of the wounded. It speaks witness to the cruel and the damned. It creaks and moans and its long, hanging vines whisper the stories of the darkest deeds for only the enlightened to hear.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	Listen To The Trees

**Author's Note:**

> To the few who read this: Enjoy!

There's a tree that grows in the woods behind the old house that speaks. Not words, of course, but still it communicates in its own way. It utters the sounds of the wounded. It speaks witness to the cruel and the damned. It creaks and moans and its long, hanging vines whisper the stories of the darkest deeds for only the enlightened to hear. 

I'm the only one there to hear; No one else will take the time to go outside and sit with the trees anymore. No one takes the time to listen. If they did, maybe they would know that the old man on the end of the street has a body buried in his backyard, and he drinks himself half to death every anniversary of the sudden demise of his wife... Her blood still stains the axe that is buried beside her under his marigolds. 

No one takes the time to listen to the trees chatter about the many feet that have treaded over their roots; their paths and their destinations, however twisted they may be. 

The old tree moans loudly in the night, swaying and shivering under the bright moon. It has seen so much wrath and pain. The vines that hang from its mangled limbs always seem to reach out to me, as if they wanted to tangle around me and drag me into the earth. It scared me, yet still I listen, because there is great power in knowing all of the secrets of the ground. The trees have so much to tell. Their roots reach everywhere, breaking into buildings and creeping through asphalt. They know everything. They see the sky, feel the earth, breathe the breath of the guilty. 

Their stories are always so gruesome – the mother that strangled her baby in the bathtub to quiet its cries; the man that held up a gas-station with a gun, then shot the man behind the counter in the head, and every innocent person with the misfortune to be in the gas-station with him when they screamed and tried to run. The trees tell me that the very man that killed all those people still walks today on the ground above their roots, while some of those roots still tickle at the caskets of the deceased in their graves. 

So I sit and I listen. I hear of every dirty secret to warn me from the bad people. From the flowers that sit upon their branches, I hear whispers of the altruistic deeds to point me to the good-hearted. They like to stay positive. Inevitably, the flowers have a lot less to say than the wretched trees that moan as if they're in unending agony. 

No one takes the time anymore to listen to the trees. Perhaps it’s for the best. I don't think everyone could handle the harsh truths that scream their stories in the dark of night... I'd rather have this knowledge to myself, anyway. In truth, it is purely power; 

I know every secret you never thought you had 


End file.
